Chapter 1

Returning home from the hospital, I was soaked through.

As soon as I opened the door, my parents sat neatly on the couch.

This was the first time they had waited for me to come home.

"What were you up to today? You didn't answer your phone, making your mother and me wait until now."

The concern in his words sounded exceptionally cold coming from my father.

"Do you know what day it is today?"

"It's Cynthia's birthday. Your mother and I went to the cemetery early this morning to see her, even Bevis was there. And you? Where have you been loafing around all day?"

I clenched the diagnosis report in my hand unconsciously. "I was busy."

"Busy with what? You don't even have a job..."

"Busy eating, seeing the doctor, and living," I interrupted him.

Perhaps they hadn't expected me to talk back. The look they gave me was displeased.

The chrysanthemums on the table inappropriately fell and made a noise.

I was tired. "Today is also my birthday."

"The same day, the day my identity was switched."

He erupted in anger, slamming the table as he stood up. "Melissa! Don't blame your resentment on her. Cynthia was innocent. And she's already dead. What do you want to fight with a dead person for?"

I felt choked up, turned around, and went upstairs.

What could I fight with her about? She just stood there and cried, and I was the one at fault.

After taking a shower, I stood by the window, lost in thought.

The rain had stopped, and under the dim streetlights, a car drove up and parked steadily in front of the house.

When the car lights went off, my phone screen lit up. It was Bevis.

"Come down. I brought you a birthday present."

I hesitated for a long time before slowly making my way down.

He didn't get out of the car but handed me the cake through the window, a cigarette still in his hand. "What took you so long?"

I took the cake. "I was getting dressed."

He reached out, pressing the cigarette into the cake. "Next time, let's go together. Running back and forth is troublesome."

The car window rolled up, leaving behind only the exhaust fumes and half a cake.

Even though it was only half, it was clearly butterfly-shaped and beautiful.

It was covered with mangoes, and I was allergic to mango.

I carried the cake to Cynthia's portrait, tapping it with the cake box. "Happy birthday to you and me."

A surge of bitterness welled up inside me, and tears began to fall uncontrollably.

The entire living room was eerily silent.

On the pitch-black night, I was celebrating my birthday with a dead person. The cake, she had to eat it first, and what remained was mine.